


Before/After

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amputation, Drama, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before and after is every Auror's lot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before/After

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kink Bingo 2010 November Mini-Challenge: _New Kinks Only!_ (Body Alteration/Injury)

Before and after is every Auror's lot.

Training. Taking a life. Retirement. In a profession full of subtle shading, there are some lines drawn so inarguably that a person is split in two along either side. Take, for instance, Alastor Moody. He remembers Moody before—before Barty Crouch Junior, before the Lestranges, before Evan Rosier. Not without his scars, no, Kingsley wouldn't have even been born then, but whole.

Five times. He can count them on the fingers of one hand (for now, he thinks, understanding that every before is an after waiting to happen).

1\. The mildew-sour and soap-sweet smell of the MLE showers. The smooth tiles against his naked back, and Moody's hands on his hip and cock, quick but careful. The sound of voices passing outside the locked door, and the greater surprise: warm lips at his neck as the hot water beat down on both of them.

2\. A Muggle alley, up against the rough bricks. "You're a fiend, Shacklebolt—always after my virtue." That slow, sly grin.

3\. The narrow confines of Department Head Scrimgeour's private bathroom. "Shh." The quiet rebuke belied by a glint in those dark eyes. Moody down on one knee, robes getting stained with floor polish.

4\. Kingsley's undersized flat, on the narrow bed not built to hold the weight of two solid men. The timbers creaking alarmingly at the slightest motion, and both of them chuckling at every wooden complaint.

5\. Moody's sitting room, three days after the war was supposed to be over, two days since Moody had last bothered coming in to the office. Slow, shaking and sleep-deprived. Moody on top, and Kingsley curled over the arm of the sofa, his eyes drifting sweetly shut as he spent.

After the Lestranges' arrest, it was months, almost a year before Moody could, before Moody would let him. But Kingsley waited, and when the time came, he stared at Moody as if he were seeing another man naked for the very first time. He flushed, and his throat tightened in shame at the ferocity of his own arousal. The soft, sunken place where Moody's eye once was made him think of those old statues of Odin, of shadows and secrets. He wanted to put his mouth to it, and to where Moody's thigh ended, oddly rounded and all over rough with a relief map of scars.

They should make Moody seem vulnerable, these wounded places, at odds with broad shoulders and well-muscled arms, but they don't. If anything, Moody has gotten stronger, harder, rougher the more is cut away from him. His hands squeeze rather than caress. They push. They grab. His mouth is sharp, his kisses never without teeth. Every embrace becomes a wrestling match, and Kingsley is bucked off and put down hard anytime he dares lie on top.

Kingsley never says no, though. He never tries to soothe those injured places. He pushes back. He grasps. He kisses Moody hard until their lips nearly split, and he bares his own belly the way only he—whole and still very nearly smooth—can bear to. He loves Moody with all he has, stealing brief, surreptitious touches to everywhere the man begins and ends: the jagged, broken cartilage of his nose, the space between two teeth, and the endlessly fascinating landscape of scar tissue where his knee should be. Urgent. Memorising through his hands, through his lips. Knowing that someday, more likely than not, there will be such a thing as life after Alastor Moody.


End file.
